


A Feral Piety

by for_autumn_i_am



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Attempt at Humor, Biblical References, Bickering - Kylux style, Collaboration, Friendship/Love, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Huxloween, Inspired by Art, M/M, Monster Kylo Ren, Mystery, Poetry, Priest Hux, okay it's like slightly ominous and eerie at times
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 22:37:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16417322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am
Summary: 1950s, Britain, North of nowhere. Armitage Hux, a young priest, is assigned a new parish where the villagers harbour dangerous secrets, a church grim haunts the graveyard, and a naked man claws at his door. He’s not prepared for any of it–and it just keeps getting worse.—This fic is a creepy collab with the wonderful littleststarfighter.





	A Feral Piety

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littleststarfighter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleststarfighter/gifts).



> Please refer to the end notes for **content warnings**

"I want to dig out what is ancient in me,  
the mistaken-for-monster,  
its ophidian prowl,  
its raven-cursed rudiment -  
let it teach me  
how to be unafraid again."  
— _Scherezade Siobhan_

The water rushes into the bedroom, through the paned windows, through the door. An explosion of foam: not long now, and Hux will drown. He can hold his breath for four minutes, when relaxed; so he has four minutes to live, less if he doesn’t lie still. He’s lying in bed, staring at the peeling ceiling, while the room fills, and it doesn’t occur him to look for a way out, escape through the broken windows, because he knows there’s no use. The water is cold. It swallows him whole. There’s pressure on his chest. His lungs will be crushed. He closes his eyes. Gives in. Exhales.

Wakes up wheezing.

* * *

A hymn is soaring through the still air, _all things bright and beautiful._ The mourners sing until their voice breaks. _All things bright and beautiful, all creatures big and small, all things wise and wonderful, the Lord God made them all_.

Has He not the right to take them back?

Can’t He do whatever the fuck He pleases?

Hux squeezes his eyes shut, shivers. It’s a cold day. A nipping wind wanders in the cemetery behind the crumbling parish church. The mossy tombstones are veiled in fog. This is how all funerals should be: solemn gloom, only sick gold sunlight shining through. It’s harder to make people believe in resurrection on a bright summer day. When bees buzz and flowers bloom around a fresh grave, it makes it look like the Lord doesn’t care.

It makes it look like that.

“Let not your heart be troubled; you believe in God, believe also in me,” Hux reads. He has a worn Bible in hand; he’s dressed in white and black, a purple stole around his neck to mark the occasion. Despite the lace, the silk, the gold trimmings, he’s positively underdressed compared to Mr. Tarkin’s widow, his daughter, the rest of the family in heavy velvet. The village is there in their threadbare Sunday best, staring at the old priest’s glossed mahogany coffin.  

“In my Father’s house, there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there you may be also. And whither I go you know, and the way you know.”

Hux keeps his eyes trained on the lines, although he knows the New Testament by heart. The flawed logic of preyish hide-and-seek motivates him, _if I can’t see them they can’t see me_ ; he makes himself believe he won’t fall under scrutiny this way. Mr. Tarkin was a tall man, but Hux is taller: Tarkin’s robes are too short on him, and they smell of old age. Even as a man of thirty-two, Hux’s face is boyish, and he’s lanky like a stripling. His voice is calm, even, but he can feel his London vowels like razor blades in his mouth, cutting-sharp; the good folk of Grefkirk-on-Moordale listen patiently with their head slightly inclined, not quite following his enunciation, and the more he tries the worse it gets _, Thomas saith unto him, Lo’d, we know not whither thou goest._

“And how can we know the way?” Hux’s voice rises above the small crowd, up to grey heavens, and the church’s bell tolls, a booming, low sound just at the perfect moment. The mourners turn to look, but Hux thinks nothing of it. His father was a priest; his life has been short periods of lulls between the roars of bells, the shouts of his father, and then, the noise of war, that hellish clamour, and the silence of a God cowering in Paradise.

“I am the way, the truth and the life,” he recites, and remembers: Mrs. Tarkin giving him a tour to the premises the day before, mist rolling down gentle hills, a fast-flowing river, sturdy gritstone everywhere, and he recalls her pointing at the church’s lone tower, “We used to have a bell,” she said, “a beautiful brass bell, but we melted it down for the guns—”

And the bell tolls again. The mourners keep staring, astonished; the sound reverberates—Hux can feel it in his stomach, his stomach turning upside down as the bells ring out, clang and bong. It’s like there’s a madman at the ropes, yanking them harder and harder and making the metal scream.

“Let your heart not be troubled, neither let it be afraid,” Hux says, talking over the cacophony of the bells. Someone gasps—Tarkin’s daughter—and points a finger behind Hux’s shoulder.

He doesn’t turn around.

He keeps still, like in his dream, while the bells wail and the mourners cover their mouths, pale in terror, their eyes round. No one makes a sound: the bell is like an air-raid alarm, and they keep the bubbling panic down, just whimpering softly as the shadow shifts.

A mass of _something_. As uncertain, as terrible as the silhouette of a night fighter: a friend, an enemy, a fragment of imagination—it could be anything. It stalks through the graveyard, slow, sidestepping the tombstones and the old willow.

Hux can only see it from the corner of his eyes. He doesn’t move. Lets it step into his field of vision. Somebody cries out. It looks like a dog. There’s relief in that thought: a stray animal. Its fur moves like gossamer. Its shapeless and midnight-black, with a hundred sharp teeth and a long, red tongue, the eyes pale and round.

Hux spins on his heels as Mrs. Tarkin screams, “Grim!” She names the thing and it breaks the spell: now the mourners starts shrieking with her; someone throws a stone at it, misses. The Grim walks closer and Hux gets a better look at it: a big black dog and nothing more.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey.” Reaches for it. The dog jerks away, and another sharp stone is thrown at the poor thing.

“Mr. Hux, quick, the holy water!”  

“It’s just a dog,” Hux says, tries to grab it. The dog snaps its teeth. “I’m terribly sorry for the—”

“Grim,” Mrs. Tarkin screams again, staying back, holding her daughter, who has hidden her face in her mother’s chest. “Go back to hell, devil, black shuck, go away, I command thee in the Lord’s name—”  

The dog peers into the grave, six feet deep. Then it leaps in, and Mrs. Tarkin wails, an inhuman sound of horror and grief. Hux curses under his breath. Passes the Bible to an elderly gentleman who’s standing stock-still, dumb with shock, thinks, _what an embarrassment_ , and rolls up his sleeves.

“Hey doggy-doggy,” he calls, claps, whistles as he walks back to the mound. The dog barks in answer.

It doesn’t bark like an ordinary dog. The sound is empty, like a funeral drum, a hollowed-out, deep echo. With the hair of his nape standing and skin prickled, Hux glances into the grave, quite ready to talk some sense into this horrid being, because he refuses to believe—

The dog, the grim, whatever it is, has vanished.

* * *

There’s a hundred things to do around the vicarage. It’s a modest little stone building with cheery chimneys, quite overgrown with ivy and gill-over-the-ground; it has been out of use for over a decade—Mr. Tarkin elected to move to the village. Hux had cleaned the walls and floors, and has a functioning bedroom upstairs. Now for the rest: unpacking the battered boxes that came with him on a lorry, got dropped in the middle of nowhere. His books hardly fit on the shelves, so some of them get their place on the mantelpiece among with candles and ceramics of cats, birds and the Virgin Mary. He rubs the leather sofas clean with vinegar, and takes the lace doilies, the carpets and the flowery curtains out in the garden for a thorough dusting.

The garden is indistinguishable from the cemetery. He steps on a grave when he hangs up a rope between two sturdy oaks; stumbles into another one as he goes to fetch the rug beater. He’s surrounded by the dead: a silent neighbourhood, for sure. Peaceful. The village glimmers in the distance, just over the narrow river. Twenty minutes by bicycle. He’ll be quite isolated here. Maybe he’ll find solace in the loneliness.

He hums to himself, the ugliness of yesterday quite forgotten. Sunday is just around the corner, the first mass to be held. He hopes that curiosity will bring an adequate turnout, so he’ll have a chance of a proper introduction. He hauls up the fabrics, heads back to the vicarage; stops short when he notices that Mr. Tarkin’s grave is dug up. He furrows his brows, turns left, turns right. No sign of an intruder, and he’s quite certain the grave was untouched just half an hour ago. Surely, he would’ve heard—he would’ve noticed—

He sets his burden down to the bench next to the door, and half-jogs to grab a spade from the shed. If anybody should see the grave disturbed—their hysterics yesterday were rather rattling, and he needs none of their superstition—

(“It’s a church grim,” Mrs. Tarkin told him afterwards, shivering in his half-finished kitchen, a cup of tea in hand. “Oh, he gave so many trouble to my dear Wilhuff, I should have expected it’d turn up. It’s been plaguing the village, and his mind as well—drove him quite mad, yes.”)

Hux shovels fresh dirt onto the grave, evens it out with careful pats, replaces the flowers he finds scattered around. There: all is mended. He dusts his hands.

* * *

The next day, the grave is dug up again. There are nail-marks on the coffin, scratches by long, sharp claws. No-one has to know.  Hux rearranges the grave, puts everything back in place.

* * *

He does the same on Sunday morning. It must be the dog, the stray, and the smell of flesh, the promise of bones and meat.

“It’s a good thing you met the church grim right away; you know now what we’re up against,” Thanisson tells him in the vestry. He’s putting on his altar boy’s robe over his plaid trousers and thick wool sweater. Hux is dressing as well, back turned to him, facing the heavy wardrobe and the narrow windows. The vestry reminds him of a dungeon. He peeks at Thanisson, who’s patting at his hair self-consciously and grins at him when he catches Hux looking. Some stray locks have escaped the pomade; Hux is not going to tell him.

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen, sir.”

“A clever young man like you shouldn’t believe in children’s tales,” Hux says, too harsh, but there’s dirt under his nails and his palms are calloused, irritation and expectations overwhelming him. He can hear the noise of the parishers outside, heavy boots on the stone, the carved benches creaking, coughs and whispers and mumbled prayers.

“You _met_ him,” Thanisson insists.

“I met a dog.” He slips the white tab into place in his collar, and gestures for Thanisson to fetch a bell.

He never liked myths. He always considered himself a man of reason; believed that God’s universe was made of governed laws, had principles—that there is design to it; ghosts and brownies, kelpies and church grims never fit into it.

A big black dog—what a lazy fable; a black dog with too bright eyes lurking in a churchyard. Guarding the graves. A cursed spirit bound to the place.

Thanisson opens the door and water flows in. Hux puts his chin up, laces his fingers for prayer. Braves the silver waters while the people sing psalms; the colours of stained glass reflect back on the curves of foamy waves. Man’s imagination is a powerful thing. Hux understands it better than most. He holds his breath until he reaches the altar, bows his head to the Blessed Sacrament, kneels.

Sinks.

* * *

He waits by the door receiving handshakes, congratulations on his passionate homily and an invitation to lunch by Mr. Opan and his wife. He’s glad to oblige. The Opans are rather well to do; Hux is served baked rabbit and jacket potatoes with cauliflower, and there’s even fruit pie and custard for dessert. Mr. Opan is quite impressed by his education, so Hux forgives him for testing him on it. He cycles back to the vicarage late in the afternoon with a full belly and an excited mind.

His future looks bright: he has a chance to earn the villager’s respect, which is all that matters. He parks his rusty bicycle by the imposing iron fence around the graveyard. He approaches the vicarage with a spring in his steps, whistling a jolly tune. It dies off when he notices the state of Mr. Tarkin’s grave: completely demolished—the stone is tipped over and slightly cracked. The dog is curled atop the grave next to it, as if it were so proud of its work of destruction it fancied a nap.

“Hullo!” Hux calls sharply, steps hurried but his hands curled in his pockets. No sudden movements—he knows better. “Excuse me! What is the meaning of this?”

The dog blinks awake, peers at Hux and raises its ears. Snarls, but doesn’t get up. Hux is not perceived as a threat so he gets closer, looming over the dog.

“You should be ashamed,” he says. “Look at the mess you made!”

The dog yawns.

“Don’t give me that attitude.” Hux wags his finger at it, then points at the grave. “Do you suppose Miss Organa would appreciate you lazing around on her grave?”

The dog wags its tail; maybe a reaction to the name. Hux glances at the tombstone; Leia Organa died in 1919. Couldn’t have been her puppy, then; but maybe a family pet—an inherent loyalty—maybe there was an owner, who used to come here.

“Stay,” Hux says, giving in. Stands straight, glances at Tarkin’s ravaged grave, sighs and heads to the vicarage. Poor dog. Poor little bastard.

He looks around in the pantry in vain. He only has canned vegetables, tomato soup and potato powder. He settles on soaking stale bread with water until it’s a pale mush, puts it in a plate he won’t miss, and walks back to the cemetery. The dog is there, waiting.

“Good boy,” Hux praises. He sets the plate down in a safe distance, but doesn’t get a reaction. Millicent was the same. She had to be _served_. Hux misses the arrogant little idiot, misses her so much it still feels like there’s a hole in his stomach. She lives somewhere in Gloucestershire now; with no one to look after her, Hux had to give her up when he volunteered to the Royal Marines.

It’s a country of strays and orphans, the paralyzed and the wounded. Hux approaches the dog with the respect one abandoned cur gives to another, holds the plate near its nose, allows it a sniff before he settles the plane down and steps back. The dog gets to its feet, and there’s a moment of hesitation before it bows its head to devour.

Hux watches him eating, although he knows he shouldn’t, that it can be perceived as something territorial, but he’s territorial all right, this is _his_ place now. If he’s supposed to share it with a dog, some rules shall be implemented.

He watches the dog chew and swallow, tail wagging, and realises with a sinking feeling that he fed it; which means its his responsibility now, because it will need another meal, then another, will come begging for it—that just like this, now he has a pet.

“The village hates you,” he says. “You shouldn’t be seen around here. You should go to Guisborough.”

But already, he’s thinking of a name. Nothing funny or cute; something Gaelic, maybe. Strong. Masculine.

“Arthur. Cale. Kyle,” he lists, pausing after each name. Thanisson would tell him, and so would the village, that he shouldn’t call it by a name something else might listen to; it needs a made-up name. “Kylo?”

The dog looks up; there’s no interest in its eyes, but no dismissal either. It’s a messy eater, wolfs down the last bits and then sits back to lick the mush smeared over its snout. Hux decides he likes Arthur better, but the dog doesn’t listen when he calls it that.  

“Kylo,” he says again, reaches out with his hand, fingers curled in case Kylo snaps. Kylo lets him scratch its ears, tolerates it regally. Hux looks around for a good stick for fetch. Spots one by the oaks, heads to get it, expecting Kylo to follow.

He doesn’t.

He’s nowhere when Hux turns back.

* * *

Hux erects a railing around Mr. Tarkin’s grave to prevent future accidents. It works far too well; he doesn’t see Kylo for over a fortnight. He bemusedly thinks it might’ve taken his advice, went down to Guisborough to find people with more enlightened minds, who wouldn’t take a pup for a grim. Kylo might be quick to vanish, but there’s nothing preternatural about it. He leaves it water and bread every day, just in case, and ends up pouring them down the loo. It’s a waste, but he rather wishes Kylo would be back to offer company.

Nobody told him the countryside would be _this_ awfully lonely.

The solitude of the city was different: he could always hear people coming and going, and there was traffic, and lights burning; songs through open windows, television, the news. And now: the sky above is clear and vast, but the darkness of the vicarage is terribly _sticky_ , thickly coating every corner, and the silence is an oppressive weight that makes his chest tight. He stays up late, burning candles to save electricity, turning page after page until he dozes off and wakes with a start in the middle of the night, neck stiff.

A terrible tempest comes one evening, with a Biblical flood of rain. Hux watches it with horror through the paned windows of his living room; thinks of Kylo, and of things with not a place to stay, then lightning tears through the sky and there’s the roll of thunder. He shudders, gasps. _That was a bomb_ . Tries to turn his attention back to the book in his lap, but it’s impossible to concentrate. His circle of candlelight no longer feels safe, the quilt doesn’t stop him from shivering. _Incoming_ , he wants to shout every time that horrible crash is heard.  

He briefly entertains finding shelter. He could get up and walk, rather calmly, upstairs to his bed, so he wouldn’t feel insane as he climbs under it. _Incoming_!

There was a war, and there were screams. He was yelling, _incoming_!

His warning came late.

The door rattles; it’s as if the wind is pushing at it, a violent gale. It’s like the storm is trying to come in, _Blitzkrieg_ , and if he opens the door there will be no stopping it, it’s an offensive, he’ll be overrun—there was a war, the war was won—he can tell the story this way, like he was never there, like he’s never seen—

A dog is howling.

Claws scratch on the door.  

“Kylo, is that you?” he calls, like there was any hope for an answer. He gets to his feet, feels the floor tilting, and makes his way through the living room as if he was swimming, fighting the flood. The little window on his door shows him a silhouette, too tall for an animal, even if it were standing on its hind legs, but he can hear the howling quite clearly, and the nails, and whimpering.

“Who’s there?” he asks, but he’s already unbolting the lock. Whoever is there, he needs help. No one should be out in this weather, not even the devil himself.

The figure is massive. A young man with too long hair, eyes distant. He’s also entirely naked.

“Come on in!” Hux shouts through the storm, because it’s his function, this is what he’s _good for_ , every church is a sanctuary, and so is a vicarage. He tries to peer over the man’s shoulder, searches for Kylo, _all creatures big and small, the Lord God made them all._

In His absence, someone else must take care.

The man stops in the anteroom, looking quite confused. The lack of clothes is the most disturbing aspect; there would be nothing strange about a man lost in the storm, but his nudity indicates a darker tale of misfortune—getting robbed, or taken advantage of, or it might be insanity, like Lear’s; it could be threatening, if it wasn’t the way the man hunched over, how his hair fell over his pale face like gossamer.

“Come to the fire,” Hux says, ushering him to the living room without touching him, because for sure, that’d be disrespectful. He guides the man to his armchair, makes him sit and covers him with the quilt rather hurriedly. “There,” he says.

The man is staring into the fire, anxious but enthralled.  Hux cannot ask him what happened; he knows that much. He squeezes his shoulder in silent encouragement, and the man flinches. He draws his hand back, and asks on his softest voice, “Do you need anything? Tea?”

The man nods. It’s a relief he speaks English; Hux is about to offer him the choice between black tea and chamomile when the man starts scratching at his ear with a startling aggression, and Hux just peeps “be right back” before he hurries to the kitchen. On his way he opens the door, calls for Kylo.

He can’t hear him anymore, but the man mutters something. Maybe Hux should explain to him they won’t be having company; maybe it’s best to keep up the pretence they’re not at the mercy of each other.

He puts on the kettle, which helps him compose himself. His heart rattles, trying to escape his chest, it beats so fast but he doesn’t think he’s in danger. Stranger things have happened; stranger things than a naked man in his home. The state he’s in reminds Hux of Adam banished from Paradise, something perfect abandoned.

Hux doesn’t hear the man enter, and cries out when he spots him sitting by the kitchen table. It’s his nerves. The kettle whistles. The man doesn't even stir, keeps looking around in alarmed curiosity.

“You gave me quite a fright, sorry,” Hux babbles as he swiftly pours out two servings. Tea splashes on his hand, so he raises the overflowing mug to his lips and takes a sip. If he’s about to be robbed or butchered, he’d rather die with a bit of sweetness on his tongue. He brings another tin mug to the man, sets it down in front of him then hurries to the other side of the round little table, hides behind the vase of flowers.

“Thank you,” the man says, belated, but spoken clearly: his voice is rich, deep. His wandering eyes settle on the tin mug. It has an orange cat on it. Like Millie.

“May I ask your name?” Hux says, holding onto his mug for dear life. The light in the kitchen is flickering, uncertain, but it’s warm here, and safe, and friendly, with all his little plates and cups around, and a knife nearby.

“Ben,” the man says.

“How nice to meet you, Ben,” Hux replies, delighted, then ruins it by adding, “Are you Jewish?”

It shouldn’t be—the first thing. But Benjamin is a Jewish name, and Ben has—that is—Hux caught a glance of it, and he’s never seen anything like _that_ before, he knew what a _bris milah_ was but never saw the _result,_ and he shouldn’t have looked but he’s seen it and now he can’t seem to think of—

“Why?” Ben grumbles darkly, grabs his tea. He has huge hands, and a huge chest, visible where the quilt is parted, a huge nose, huge ears, huge—

“I’m asking as a friend,” Hux hastens to add. “I fought the Germans.”

“So did I,” Ben mutters, and takes a gulp. It’s a relief to see him drink, to hear him speak. To know that he’s not some sort of apparition. “On my grandmother’s side.”

It takes Hux a moment to pick up the conversation, but then he confesses, “My mother was Irish,” something he’s not prone to talk about, but he feels like he owes it to Ben, after he has made him so uncomfortable with a silly, untoward question. An awkward silence settles.

Ben has strange eyes. Gold-bright. A rather unusual face. He licks at his lips, catches Hux watching.

“You have been kind to me,” he says. “Kindness should be repaid. You must wonder why I’m here.”

“Well, now that you mention it.”

Ben scoffs. Peers around; never looks at anything for too long, and never meets Hux’s eyes.

“I am here to offer you protection. It’s in my power to guard your parish. I’ll do it.”

“Why would—It's not the church of your religion.”

“The sacred ground is ancient. It's from before religion.”

Ben’s shoulders are hunched as if he was carrying an invisible weight. He came at an hour of mutual need. A man who wears beauty like an evidence of something mighty. He asked for shelter. Hux let him in.

“Are you an angel?” he asks. As soon as it’s out he hates himself for saying it. It’s delusional, even from a priest.

Ben smiles at him, showing his sharp canine teeth. “Do you think me radiant, Father?”

“I didn’t mean it as—flattery,” Hux says. He cannot save himself the embarrassment.

“No, of course not. You know how angels look like. How they really look like.”

_The first beast was like a lion, and the second beast like a calf, and the third beast had a face as a man, and the fourth beast was like a flying eagle. And the four beasts had each of them six wings about him; and they were full of eyes within: and they rest not day and night, saying, Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty—_

“Indeed,” Hux says.

“So yes. It’s not a compliment.”

 _Do not be afraid_. Angels always said that. They must have looked terrible. Maybe worse than the Book of Revelations let on.

“I merely meant—” Hux starts, mouth dry.

“You have no idea of the powers that may be,” Ben says, meeting his eyes for the first time. “You cannot even imagine what _exists._ Look at that, for example.”

Hux is reluctant to turn away. There's something wrong with Ben's eyes. A chestnut-brown. Almost red. Gold in light. Black in darkness.

Hux glances at Jesus on the fridge. He has a lamb in his arms. Hux always liked the lamb.

“I’m looking,” he reports.

“Do you see the problem with it?”

“It was my father’s. The colours have faded.”

Jesus used to have bright blue eyes like the sky, and fair hair; his cheeks were rosy. He looked familiar, comforting.  Then too much light was shed on it.

Hux hears Ben get up, but refuses to turn his way. Ben is insane.

On second thought, he didn’t say anything the Scripture wouldn’t confirm.

“Jesus of Nazareth,” Ben says, voice too deep, accent untraceable, “was a carpenter. Strongly built. Young, just thirty-three. Dark hair, probably.”

Hux chances a glance at him; the way the quilt is wrapped around his shoulders, how he stands leaning to the counter. The light in his wet hair shining like a halo.

“He looked like you,” he says. Thinks of Thomas sliding fingers into the wounds of Christ. The heat of wet meat. Pushes the thought aside.

Ben raises his hands, a gesture of mocking offering. “Far too pale for the Son of Man, don't you think? You’re searching for an explanation in the wrong places. You believe in a fake Messiah, and angels. I'm not anything like them “

The quilt has parted.

“Are you the devil come to tempt me?” Hux asks slowly.

“Pull your nose out of your holy book. There are powers beyond your knowledge. You won’t find me in your philosophy. What am I?”

“Rude,” Hux says. Ben is taken aback; Hux loves that look on his face. Less zealous, less feverish. Normal, in a soothing way. “You told me you wanted to repay my kindness, but all you did was insult my theology.”

“You wouldn’t know an angel if it flew over your head and shat on you,” Ben growls, and leaves the room, stomping.

* * *

 _I might be imagining things_ , Hux tells himself as he’s washing away the evidence of Ben’s presence, the new bar of dish soap awkward in his slippery hands. He can hear noises from the living room, but blames them on the storm. To his late visitor’s credit, Hux is no longer petrified by the temptest, much too focused on the vision of Ben.

He lingers on his insults and promises while he pretends they were never uttered, and even though there’s nothing left to do in the kitchen, he lingers, delaying the inevitable. He neatens the rows of cockery sitting on a shelf, almost drops a plate when lightning strikes. There’s a growl from the living room and he follows the noise, plate still in hand, through darkness and thunder.

The floorboard creaks under his socked feet as he peaks into the room, raising the plate as if it was a shield. The room is illuminated by the fireplace and the flickering flame of a candle. A big black dog is curled up on the leather armchair, ears perked up. It looks up at Hux, disdainful.

“Kylo?” Hux asks. He pleads. He knows those eyes now. He knows what it all means. Shakes his head, steps back. Presses the plate to his chest. Looks at Kylo again. “No,” he says. Keeps repeating that as he turns on his heels and heads to his bedroom, repeating “no, no, no,” louder with every step until coherency is lost to a frustrated scream.

* * *

Jenny Greenteeth, grindylows and merfolk; hags, witches, grims.

Ben in the flesh, more apparition than man, preaching forbidden gospels.

Kylo in the living room, whom Hux can hear through the floor. Hear it breathe, and stalk, and crawl. Remembers how he saw it that first time, the rows and rows of teeth, and pale eyes watching. A childish instinct drives him to pull the duvet up to his chin, make sure his toes aren’t sticking out; to cocoon like a coward while he recites the Colossians, _beware lest any man spoil you through philosophy_ _and vain deceit, after the tradition of men, after the rudiments of the world, and not after Christ,_ _for in Him dwelleth all the fulness of the Godhead bodily,_ starts again, _beware lest any man spoil you through philosophy, beware lest any man spoil you, beware, beware._

There is nothing to protect him but the Godhead, and the Lord has been decapitated.

There was a great fire in heaven, and God was burned by the Luftwaffe.

He melted away in the acid rains of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.  

_Gott is tot._

And if He’s still alive, that’s worse.

Kylo claws at the walls.

Whines.

This is the end of times. The storm rages on, a flood like Noah’s, and Hux is curled up in his pillowed arc; whether God is dead, absent, busy, uncaring, His principles should still stand,  and those are—Love, yes, the right kind—and Compassion, but mostly Pity.

Hux kicks off the covers. Thinks of Forgiveness and Bravery, and walks downstairs, into the lion’s den, and forces himself not just to see what isn’t supposed to be there: the ghostly presence of something unthinkable, the black fur moving like gossamer.

“I never offered you a towel,” Hux tells the monster. Leans to the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes are tired. His heart is heavy. Fear is still kicking in his stomach. Doesn’t matter. It’s done now. He knows that much about superstition. He opened the door. Invited the grim in. Gave it a drink.

It’s here to stay.

“It was rude of me,” Hux goes on as Kylo’s shadow grows, creeps up on the walls, eclipses the room. “I suppose that makes us even in incivility.”

Kylo barks. An empty sound like a distant bell.

“Come,” Hux says, weary and defeated as darkness swallows him whole.

He dries the beast’s fur and lets it into his bed.

_Beware, beware._

They weather through the storm together.

* * *

Hux goes to the kitchen for his morning tea and Ben is there, waiting for him perched on the counter. His hair hangs heavy, dry and fluffy; he has clothes on that look like he dragged them through the mud, a stiff khaki greatcoat and striped pyjama pants. He seems slightly less mad; a recovering soldier. He’s framed by the image of the graveyard, a hazy vision through the windows, ragged tombstones drenched in darkness. Ben looks like he belongs there.

“You shouldn’t exist,” Hux tells him as he walks to the heater.

Ben scoffs; his uneven teeth show. “Good morning to you, too.”

“You shouldn’t exist,” Hux insists. “I’m a man of scientific principles—”

“And I’m no man.” Ben gets hold of the counter’s edge, leans closer. “How do you explain that, Father?”

Hux ignores him, for the time being, until he can say something that doesn’t sound idiotic.

“I’m not Catholic,” he manages. “You shouldn’t call me—”

“Alright, sweetheart.”

Hux winces. Ben slides off the counter, gives him a hungry grin.

 _Do you know me_ , Hux thinks, _do you know what you shouldn’t know, can you pry into my heart of hearts—Leviticus 20:13—_

“You don’t know me,” he says.

“Of course not, we just met.” Ben walks to the fridge, peers into it with slight confusion. “You’re the new priest, and I’m the same old guardian spirit.” He gets himself a bottle of milk.

“I’m not anything like Mr. Tarkin,” Hux says. Ben hums, puts his back against the fridge’s door, standing between Christ and Hux. Takes a swig from the bottle. Hux watches his throat work.

“I would hope so,” Ben says. He’s messy, even as a human. Fat droplets run down his chin.

“I should get going,” Hux mumbles, turns off the gas. Pours the lukewarm water into a mug. Feels Ben watching him; feels it under his skin.

“Where are you headed?”

“None of your business, I’m afraid.”

“I’m your church grim.”

“You’re not mine,” Hux says and makes the mistake of looking at Ben: warm eyes, soft skin. He smells like rain and wet dirt, like leaves and fading flowers, like death. “I don’t own anyone,” he adds as he dips a filter into the water. Focuses on the weak fragrance, the washy brown of the tepid liquid. He finds himself saying, “May I ask,” before he could help it—he doesn’t like the silence between them, it leaves too much room for—interpretation—“May I ask what do you have against Mr. Tarkin?”

“You’re not ready to hear it.”

Hux bites his lips, nods. Ben tilts his head curiously.

“You were haunting him,” Hux says; admits it to himself. Maybe there was a storm, back then. A strange man emerged from the cemetery, nude and shivering. He kept knocking, and no-one would let him in.

“The sequence of events is of grave importance,” Ben replies. He arches an eyebrow and raises the bottle. “First, there was the man in black. The prince of the power of the air. You’ll meet him soon. I can’t ward him off.”

“What should I do when I—”

“Run.”  

* * *

Hux puts on a cape over his cassock, gets his wide-rimmed hat. Ben is pacing in the antechamber, restless like a dog ready for his walk.

“You’re not coming,” Hux tells him tonelessly.

“I am.”

“You’re not dressed.”

Ben looks down at himself, his bare chest, the pyjama pants. “I am.”

Hux doesn’t have the energy to argue with him. He wordlessly collects the holy water vessel and the sprinkler, checks if the lid is firmly closed, puts them in the bicycle’s basket. Something brushes against his knees. He jumps and turns sharply; Kylo is leading the way to the gate, tail raised like a proud flag. There’s a pile of clothes on the floor.

Hux sighs deeply, hops onto the saddle. Hurstby is a good hour away; he was asked for a baptism.

So this is it. He’ll go accompanied by a church grim.

He tries not to think of what Kylo’s existence signifies. It would only make sense that if it is real, so are all the boogeyman. That’d be just dandy, an absent God and all the devils.

In this form, Kylo looks unassuming; an ordinary pet dashing about, jumping up to play with leaves floating through sunlight. A peaceful sight. Maybe he’s bigger than most dogs, tall and robust, but Hux has his fingers crossed that the good people of Hurstby don’t share the fears of Grefkirk-on-Moordale, and won’t greet them with pitchforks and fire.

He enjoys riding his bike through muddy paths, the wind on his cheeks, the exercise. A priest’s life is an idle one. He wishes he could be like Kylo, abandon his bicycle and run as hard as he can, with all his strength, until his muscles sing; until he forgets about decorum and gets on all fours, howls and trots. A dangerous thought, but he always envied wild things.  

They cross Moordale Beck and pass gated forests, leave behind stones left by the Romans, the Celts, the forgotten tribes before them. Then the wilderness: the last sign of civilisation abandoned—England, naked and glorious; not Wordsworth’s modest homeland, not Shakespeare’s sceptred isle, but a savage thing, untamed, with shabby trees and overgrown fields, deep, dark waters and a turbulent sky.

 _Albion_ , Hux’s soul cries out, and then another thing he’s ashamed to utter: _mother_.

“We’re close now,” he says, keeping his eyes on Hurstby on the horizon, cycling towards it breathlessly, trying to put distance between himself and this savage place. He pictures London’s neat streets. He tries to smell the asphalt, feel the heat of bricks radiating the sparse sunlight. The earth shifts under the tires—it’s moving—the city is collapsing, a siren is blaring and the Thames rears up, rises, rises, filthy water and dead bodies—

He has no memory how he got to the village.

He comes to himself by a well, fog all around and mossy scents. Kylo is barking at him.

“I’m sorry,” Hux says, gripping the handlebars with uncertain hands. “I’m sorry, I think I might’ve lost myself for a minute there.”

* * *

The child in his hands keeps crying. She’s twisting her limbs, gets tangled in the white lace; she’s red in the face and her nose is runny. Hux is rocking her to no avail.

“May the almighty God deliver you from the powers of darkness, and lead you in the light and obedience of Christ,” he tells her. She keeps wailing.

Kylo is watching them from the ruined little chapel’s entrance. The godparents look exhausted, so does the mother and the father: pale, afraid.

“Praise God who made heaven and earth,” Hux says.

“Who keeps His promise for ever,” they reply numbly.

“Let us give thanks to the Lord our God.”

“It is right to give thanks and praise.”

“Loving Father, we thank you for your servant Moses, who led your people through the waters of the Red Sea to freedom in the Promised Land. We thank you for your Son Jesus, who has passed through the deep waters of death.”

Kylo tilts its head.

Hux is invited to lunch after the ritual. Kylo follows him to the kitchen, and Hux feeds it liver under the table. They eat in silence until the godfather asks, “And where’s the good Mrs. Hux?”

The tang of brown sauce bites Hux’s tongue. “There’s no Mrs. Hux.”

“Have you met my niece Phasma?”

“I’m not the marrying type,” Hux says. The godparents share a glance. Did he say too much? Was it too evident? He frets and sweats for a terrible moment, before the godmother raises her hand, points at the window behind him.

“In any case, that’s our Phasma.”

A young woman with short fair hair is smoking cigarettes in the garden. She doesn’t look like the marrying type either.  

* * *

There’s something wrong with Hux’s bicycle. He can’t say what; he still doesn’t remember most of the way here. Phasma used to work in a Raleigh factory; she’s kneeling in the dirt, pulling the chain from the gears.

“You’re the new priest in Grefkirk?” she asks. It sounds conversational, although she doesn’t look at Hux.

“That’s me.”

“You have a nice dog,” Phasma says, not looking at Kylo either. It wags its tail anyway. “What kind?”

“A cur. I have no idea.”

Kylo barks, offended. Phasma deigns to squint at it. Pulls a face.

“Yeah, no clue. Bet he freaks the folks out.” She cleans her oily hands on her skirt. It looks awkward on her. Doesn’t match her sturdy boots, her thick sweater. “Try now.”

“Why do you think they’re afraid of it?” Hux asks as he mounts the bicycle. Phasma stands back to give him space.

“Things got ugly, recently.”

“How ugly?”

“Ask the corpses without faces. Mr. Tarkin, for example.” She looks at Kylo, coos mockingly. “Eyes taste nice, all right? The grim tears out their tongues.”

Hux’s feet slip on the pedals, and the bicycle jolts forward.

* * *

The wind picks up and chases after them, tugging at Hux’s robe, ruffling up the soft fur on Kylo’s back. Kylo keeps running ahead then slows down, skips around in circles waiting for Hux, panting delightedly and eyes shining with a glee foreign to his human form.

Hux almost wishes it was always like this. He wanted a dog, he wanted a stray—it’s quite adorable like this, the complications and the temptations of its manly frame entirely removed. There’s no bickering, no display of lewd flesh.

Hux whistles, says, “Here, doggy, doggy.”

He’s not fooling anybody. He’s not fooling the church grim, or Phasma back in Hurstby, or himself. He’s in the company of a beast—and he’s missing, curiously, the company of the Other, the infuriating Ben. He imagines them cycling side-by-side, arguing about religion, but he still pictures Kylo running about. He can’t have them both; maybe he can’t have any of them.

He’s never taken a companion. He always considered secrets too perilous.

He cannot have a pet either. People will suspect him for his sympathy with a monster.

When he spots the waters of Moordale Beck glinting in the distance, he pulls the brakes, disturbing the fallen leaves as he comes to a halt in the sparse woods around.

“I suppose people are up and about,” he says. “They shouldn’t see you. I have some business in the post office. Do you understand me?”

Kylo turns its back on him, ears perched.

“You can wait for me home. You won’t disappear on me again, will you?”

Kylo snarls, and starts running. Hux’s shoulders drop as he watches him race through the heathery.

“You impossible creature,” he mutters, and starts the bicycle again.

The paths are treacherous here, still muddy from the storm. When he arrives to the village, he’s not at his most dignified, dirt clinging to his cassock as he cycles through the bridge, passes the rows of brown-bricked cottages. He can hear Kylo howling, but cannot see him.

He wanted to take his time, familiarize himself with the village proper, but there’s an urgency in the air that doesn’t sit well with him. Nevertheless, he heads to the post office to see if his order of altar bread has arrived. Loses his way twice. The village is small, but it has winding roads and secret little passages curling over the gentle slopes. Kylo’s cries hang in the air like sharp icicles.

A wrong turn—he arrives to a ruined lodge with shattered windows. The sharp shards of glass remind him of so many teeth around a dark, yawning mouth. The green door is hanging on its hinges, creaking in the wind. Hux frowns at the building, turns his bike around, peers at the door again.

Somebody is standing there. A grotesquely tall, pale figure hunched over, grinning at him toothlessly.

Hux turns away sharply, stares straight ahead of him, the path he should be taking, away, away, but he’s not moving.

He can’t.

What he saw is not possible. It’s inconceivable.

It might still be there.

(Phasma said there were murders. Village gossip, surely. A rogue, maybe. An escaped prisoner.

The prince of the powers of the air.)

He can’t look. He can’t look again. If it’s still there, that’s terrible; if he only imagined it, that’s worse. His grip tightens.

He very carefully places his feet on the pedals.

“Help!” someone cries.

He starts cycling. He doesn’t look back. He can feel the thing watching. He think he can hear it grinning.

“Heeelp!”

The thing is still inside the house, too tall for the door. It might soon get out.

“Somebody!”

Kylo’s howl is echoing on the wind and someone is crying.

He has no memory of getting to the market square. He has no memory how the blood got on his hands. He’s kneeling by the body of the Tarkin’s daughter, fingers on the stump of her neck. People are standing around.

She looks like she was mauled by an animal. Torn up, and apart.

Mrs. Tarkin cradles her smashed head. Meat, brains, bones and hair. She looks at Hux, her eyes too round.

“Pray for her,” she says. “Help her, please help, somebody help—”

Hux can’t remember a single prayer.

* * *

There was a murder.

He can tell the story this way.

Like he was never there.

Like he’s never seen what he’s seen.

He walks home, red hands hanging by his side. Somebody has his bicycle. Somebody has the holy water. It’s dusk. The police came and went. They took the body. There’s a hospital down in Guisborough. They will put her back. Rearrange the shredded pieces until it resembles a human.

There’ll be a wake, and a funeral, again.

The graveyard is silent. The leaves creak under his dragging feet. Ben is sitting on Leia Organa’s grave, terrified and naked.

“I told you to run,” he says. “I tried to warn you off, stupid. Now look at you.”

“I didn’t—”

“I know.” He beckons him closer. Hux goes, dazed. Rivers run under his feet. Rivers run to the sea, to the sea. Ben gets hold of his wrists, gently. Rubs his palm with his thumbs. “Are you all right? Did he try to—Did he talk to you?”

“It wasn’t you who killed her,” Hux says, then adds, “was it?”

Ben’s eyes are dark tonight. His grip is tight.

“I tried to warn you off,” he repeats. “I’ve been howling and howling—”

“It wasn’t you.”

Ben lets go of his hands. “We should get you cleaned up.”

“It wasn’t—”

“Not this one.”

“Mr. Tarkin?” Hux asks. He sounds calmer than he feels. Reasonable. Ben leads him into the antechamber. It’s dark. He doesn’t get the light. “He was found with his face missing. No eyes, mouth, nose. A grinning skull. The organs gone.”

“It was revenge, and hunger. You wouldn’t understand.”  Ben goes into the bathroom, gives a confused look to the hairdryer.

A murderer.   

A monster.

Hux gave him shelter. He won’t take it back. Watches Kylo open the tap. Looks for numerals on his wrist. Just pale skin. Whatever happened to him, he’s one of the lucky ones, still. His folk deserve protection. The world failed them one too many times.

Ben reaches for him. He goes willingly, stands next to him, shoulder to shoulder as Ben soaps up his hands for him. Lets the water run over them.

“I am a shepherd,” he says. “There’s a wolf among my herd. What am I supposed to do about that?”

“Ask your little dog for help.”

“Will you help me?”

“Ask him nicely.”

“No point. You either will, or you won’t.”

Ben chuckles, and squeezes Hux’s hands. “See, this is why I like you.” He gives a quick lick to his knuckles, and lets him go.

Hux cradles his hands to his chest, flushed. “I should get washed up. I still smell like—” _Blood and mud, blood and mud, blood and—_

“Like war,” Ben finishes for him; his voice breaks.

“Where—?” Hux asks gently.

“France.”

“...Blimey.”

“Yeah.”

“Were you part of Operation Dynamo?”

“Pardon?”

“Dunkirk. You must have. No? Anyhow, I really should—”

“Yeah, of course.” Ben leaves him with a strange look on his face. Hux starts undressing methodically. He can move now, now that his hands are clean. He’s no longer paralyzed. He’s alive and awake. He’s here. Against all odds, he’s still—

He cleans himself by the sink, puts on a robe, combs his hair. There. He feels normal. Looks the part.

He goes to the living room on tiptoes. He doesn’t want to disturb the hush that had fallen over the vicarage. There’s a sense of peace, and he’s desperate to keep it. He tells himself no-one can harm him here. The door is closed, and death is outside. It’s in the cemetery, it’s in the village. It used to be in Germany, Belgium, Poland and France, and it used to spread like rot—but the world is all right now, they only had to amputate—certain parts—

The Tarkin girl is in the hospital, limbs numbered, a card hanging on her big toe, name and cause of death, _mauled_.

_Cursed._

Hux needs to sit for a minute. He sinks into the armchair, feeling faint and sick. He’s still reeking.

Ben comes to sit by him, crouched on the ground. After a moment of hesitation, he puts his head over Hux’s knees. Hux should offer him the quilt. Should reassure him that he feels fine. Be a good host and ask what would he like for dinner.

He strokes Ben’s hair instead.

“Thank you,” he says.

Ben makes a sound like a low, content growl. Hux tips his head back, watches the ceiling. Keeps caressing Ben’s head. Realises he’s touching nothing. Looks down. Ben has dispersed into mist.

The scent of death lingers.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Content warnings:** if you’re Christian, this fic might rub you in the wrong way / Hux suffers from PTSD / a Jewish character is tied up in pagan/Christian mythology, is displeased about it / graphic description of dead bodies / Hux vaguely references his suspicion that Ben might be a rape survivor - he's wrong / Hux has a mildly troubled relationship with homosexuality; it becomes more prominent in later chapters [spoiler on emotional arc: Hux is not ashamed of feeling attraction, he’d just rather not act upon it to avoid scandal. I wonder if he’ll change his mind.]  
>  **Further clarifications:**  
>  * Be assured that future explicit content will _not_ feature any form of bestiality.  
>  * On religion [slightly spoilerish re:ch1 - Hux is a disillusioned priest who thinks that God either doesn’t exists, or doesn’t care about the world; this idea keeps haunting and troubling him. Therefore, this fic doesn’t deliver on the usual tropes of priest kink, like concerns about purity, excessive guilt, guilty pleasures, or internalised homophobia.]
> 
> This AU is **littleststarfighter** 's idea ([tumblr](http://littleststarfighter.tumblr.com/) ) - we developed most of the story together, I ([tumblr ](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/)) did the words.
> 
> A million thanks to [ktula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula) for the beta-work and proofreading!
> 
> There's a [moodboard ](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/179454054606/a-feral-piety-huxloween-cemetery-crypts) for the fic for your reblogging consideration ⭐


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